John settled onto the edge of the crimson-draped bed, the silk cool against his skin, mind racing through priorities.

  The Rotfather's heart was key—the pulsing nexus fueling all this corruption, per the vampires' own words. Blondie's promise of directions tomorrow felt like the cleanest path; pressing now risked tipping his hand. Stay put, play pet. If she stonewalls at dawn, the castle's still mine to prowl. Rest was tactical—body primed, senses alert—no true sleep, just coiled readiness. His body did not really need rest anymore, it seemed, he started to be beyond mortals’ basic needs.

  He dimmed to human-boy frailty, curling under tattered covers, ears straining for footsteps or chitin doors creaking. Shy moonlight filtered by toxic clouds bled through bars, gargoyles' eyes glinting like watchers. Hours ticked in silence; no hunting parties returned. Dawn loomed—blondie's "meal" of intel awaited. Patience honed the predator's edge.

  John's eyes snapped open wider in the dim moonlight, every sense flaring as a figure shimmered into existence beside the bed—no door creak, no footstep, just sudden reality folding around blue robes and a weathered face.

  The old man stood there, staff gnarled like ancient roots in hand, white beard flowing, eyes twinkling with familiar mischief. "I was waiting for you to fall asleep to visit you in your dreams, but given you're so alert, I had to materialize here."

  John vaulted from the bed in a blur of motion, joy erupting across his face as he exclaimed, "Old man!" He barreled forward, wrapping the apparition in a fierce hug—thirteen-year-old frame belying Tier IV strength, held back to boyish enthusiasm. The scent of ozone and timeless wisdom filled the air, chasing away the room's coppery taint. Here, in vampire-haunted gloom, an anchor from forgotten trials.

  John released the old man from the hug, stepping back with a grin that faded into thoughtful silence as memories flooded in.

  He pondered the whirlwind since their last meeting: weretigress duplicates, saved tribe via forbidden time-weaving—the old man's own lessons bending reality to defy death, the demi-gods’ measuring device. His power had surged, demi-god tier was now his norm, yet this blue-robed figure radiated depths far beyond even that.

  "Are you a god?" John asked, eyes narrowing with genuine curiosity.

  The old man chuckled softly, unperturbed, leaning on his gnarled staff. "More or less," he replied matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather.

  John's brow furrowed deeper, thoughts spiraling. Father? That'd explain my freakish ascent—demi-god blood anomaly. But no—the vial's visions from Kael showed normal human parents, desperate in black lizardmen induced chaos. Still, an eerie familiarity tugged, like echoes in his veins. He studied the twinkling eyes, sensing ancient ties unbound by blood. But what was the part of the vision about the lone cradle? He had almost forgotten that part.

  The old man's words sliced through John's swirling thoughts like a chill wind, interrupting them.

  "I came here to warn you," the blue-robed figure said, voice grave and urgent. "You are chewing a bit more than what you can handle. Be wary of Lilith." With that, he shimmered into nothingness—staff, robes, twinkling eyes vanishing as if never there, leaving only faint ozone in the stale air.

  John stood frozen, heart pounding. Serious—deadly serious. The old man never appeared for chit-chat; past visits brought time-magic salvation or harsh training regimens, not vague alarms. Lady Lilith ruled this castle, vampire queen per their boasts. Was she no mere vampire, not just a snack for a demi-god? Was she a hidden demi-god? Rotfather-touched? Staying put suddenly felt like baiting a trap; blondie's "tomorrow" intel now reeked of ambush.

  Pacing the crimson room, fingers twitching, John weighed escape: window-prowl the spire now, or feign sleep till dawn and bolt at first slip? Lilith loomed larger than gloating minions—the old man's caution screamed rethink. Castle's gloom pressed heavier; vulnerability itched despite his power. Move smart, or become the chewed. Could he somehow use his dhampir blood to his advantage? But this was not in line with his masquerade.

  A sickly dawn seeped into the room, more a greying of the sky than a sunrise. The sun’s light—or what little of it pierced this realm—was strangled behind bands of toxic clouds, its rays reduced to a weak, jaundiced glow that left the world in a permanent dim twilight rather than true morning.

  Hours crawled. No knock. No click of heels in the corridor. The blonde vampire did not come.

  John sat on the edge of the bed, tension coiling tighter with every heartbeat. What were they hunting? The castle’s hunters probably rarely left the corrupted lands according to what he had inferred from his short stay here. That much he’d gathered, the monstrosities that had attacked Naggaroth were supposed to bring them “fresh food”—living prisoners, kept in crimson cocoons as walking blood reserves.

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  His jaw clenched. If they’re out, they’re feeding. And if they’re feeding, there are victims—humans, elves, maybe even kids like the act I’m playing. Whatever the old man had warned about Lilith, he couldn’t ignore the others caught in this web. Whether he stayed in this room or not, one truth settled like iron: at some point, he would have to save whoever the vampires were bleeding dry.

  John paced the length of the room, bare feet whispering over cold stone, the shredded crimson curtains casting bloody shadows across his path.

  Was it a mistake to stay? The question gnawed. If he’d slipped out the window last night, he could have shadowed the vampires’ hunt, learned their routes, maybe found the cocoon-pens where their “food” was stored in case there was such a place. Or he could have prowled the castle’s arteries—mapped stairways, sniffed out wards, located Lilith’s throne and, with luck, some information on the location of the Rotfather’s heart.

  Instead he had chosen patience—a pet waiting on a promise that hadn’t come with dawn.

  He stopped by the barred window, fingers curling around rusted iron. If they suspect nothing, I still have my cover, and maybe the blonde returns with the directions I need. If they did suspect, though, every hour he stayed might tighten a noose he couldn’t see.

  The doubt didn’t break him, but it sharpened his next choice: the time for passive waiting was almost over.

  John pressed his ear to the bedroom door, senses sweeping the corridor beyond. No footsteps. No heartbeats. No rustle of silk or whisper of breath. The castle, which had throbbed faintly with predatory life the night before, now felt hollow—like a carcass picked clean.

  He tried easing the latch, the door was locked. This was nothing for his strength but he wanted to not leave traces of his escapade. John looked at the window and exited from there, using his air magic to float, unwilling to transform into his dragon form to avoid attracting too much attention. He then approached the next window. It was opened and he entered a room not unlike the one he had spent the night in and just left behind. Its door to the corridor was unlocked however and he pushed it open, slipping out into the gloom.

  The hallway stretched in both directions, lit only by guttering sconces that bled sickly green fire. Stone here was not entirely stone—black blocks veined with faintly pulsing crimson, as if hardened blood ran through the mortar. He felt like the corridor had changed a bit compared to what he had witnessed the day before but he decided to continue exploring. Portraits lined the walls at irregular intervals, their canvases warped and buckling.

  John paused at the first frame.

  A woman stared back—once perhaps noble, now a streaked smear of mold and vandalized pigment. Her eyes had been gouged out and repainted with dripping red, her dress overgrown with a crust of black fungus. A brass plaque beneath bore only a corroded name, letters eaten halfway by time. No mention of Rotfather, no sigil of a heart—just another relic swallowed by corruption.

  He moved on, steps feather-light. There was no sign of the vampires.

  A few doors down, he pushed into a side chamber. Dust billowed; no one had entered in years.

  Shelves sagged along the walls, holding bottles whose contents had long since congealed into tar. A torn chaise lounge lay on its side, stuffing spilling like intestines. The window was bricked over from the outside, mortar oozing black. On a central table lay a spread of rusted instruments—hooks, clamps, serrated blades—but all mundane, no inscriptions, no ritual diagrams.

  Not a hint of where the Rotfather’s heart lay.

  He backed out, tension ratcheting higher. They’re gone. The whole brood. Hunt, or something worse. If Lilith called them to a gathering…

  He descended a curling staircase, stone steps worn uneven by centuries of traffic. Here and there, he saw dried brown-black smears on the walls where hands had dragged, some human-sized, some disturbingly wide. The air grew heavier with the coppery tang of old blood.

  At the stair’s base, an archway opened into a grand hall.

  It might once have been a banquet chamber, larger than the one he had been in last night. A long table dominated the middle, groaning under the weight of what had been last night’s “meal.” Now it was a tableau of abandonment: plates crusted with congealed gore, overturned goblets dripping from their rims, half-sucked bones scattered like refuse. A chair had been knocked over and left lying; another bore deep claw-marks in its arms, as if someone had gripped too hard in ecstasy or rage. The vampires he had met were not the only inhabitants of this castle but now, no one was there.

  He moved down the length of the table, eyeing the walls. Tapestries sagged from hooks—threadbare scenes of forests rotting, cities collapsing under clouds of darkness, a central figure with a crown of thorns thrusting a hand into the ground. Where his chest should be, the fabric had disintegrated entirely, only faint outlines hinting at a crude heart motif.

  Not enough. No directions. No map.

  He stopped at the far end, where a dais held a higher-backed chair—no true throne, but elevated all the same. The upholstery was intact, dark leather polished by countless occupants. Above it, a stone relief was carved straight into the wall: a stylized tree, leafless, roots sinking deep into a jagged sphere. In the center of that sphere, someone had chiseled a crude circle and painted it deep, flaked crimson.

  His fingers brushed the design. A hint, not a chart. They love symbols, but symbols don’t tell me where to walk.

  He exhaled quietly and moved on, walking through halls of nothing.

  The castle’s veins twisted without logic. John slipped through galleries whose ceilings soared high enough that gargoyles could nest among the rafters—yet not a single statue stirred. Dust lay thick on railings that should have been polished recently if the vampires used these routes. He passed through a music room where a harp’s strings had snapped and curled like cobwebs, a cracked piano oozing a slow leak of dark blood instead of dust when he lifted its lid. No notes. No names. Just eerie, useless decadence.

  In another chamber, mirrors lined all four walls, tall and oval. Each pane was fogged from within, silver backing eaten away in ragged circles. When he stood before one, his reflection came through in fragments—eyes clear, mouth seeming smeared by unidentifiable substances on the mirror, the rest blurred under fungal blooms slowly eating the glass. He tested for illusions, letting a thread of light mana brush the surfaces; they shivered faintly but revealed no hidden runes, no secret passages.

  Nothing.